


Not While I'm Around

by nwspaprtaxis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Big Brothers, Blood, Clinging, Crying, Drugs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s02e17 Heart, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Lies, Little Brothers, Panic Attacks, Post-Episode: s02e17 Heart, Promises, Protective Dean Winchester, Season/Series 02, Separation Anxiety, Shock, lying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-29
Updated: 2010-05-29
Packaged: 2017-12-12 23:13:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwspaprtaxis/pseuds/nwspaprtaxis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean flinches as the single gunshot ricochets through the small apartment. Sammy did it. Sam actually did it... Coda/Tag to the irresistible 2x17 HEART.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not While I'm Around

**Author's Note:**

> **_A/N:_** Right after I watched the heartbreaking episode _2x17 HEART_ , I had the compulsion to write my first true tag / coda. So... TAH DAH! Here is my tag / coda to _2x17 HEART_. It takes place from the second the screen goes black at the end to a bit afterwards, but does not directly lead into _2x18 HOLLYWOOD BABYLON_. Heavy on the spoilers for _HEART_  and the major story arc of S2.
> 
> As always, a kazillion thanks and a huge smish to my wickedly fantastic Beta, **mad_server** , for the endless support and editing.
> 
>  ** _Disclaimer:_** Do not own. Am not making a profit. Just simply having fun with their psyches and returning them slightly more battered to Kripke and Co. and all that Yada Yada. Additionally, the title comes from the song of the same title in the musical _Sweeney Todd_ \- which I don't own either.

Dean flinches as the single gunshot ricochets through the small apartment. _Sammy did it. Sam actually did it._ The words run on repeat through his head. He knows right then with a greasy, nauseous feeling somewhere in the pit of his belly that Sam's never going to be the same, the same way he implicitly knew Dad had done something _stupid... wrong_ back at the hospital all those months ago.

The apartment is too quiet, too still. There is no wild sobbing, no whimpers, as he half-expected, just utter silence. It's so noiseless he almost thinks his eardrums've exploded. Dean slowly walks into the other room, buying time, and there's blood everywhere. On the floor, the walls, the once-white couch, the ceiling even. Sam's kneeling in the middle of it all, holding Madison's body in his arms, hand cradling her head, fingers tangled in her hair, mashing her nose against his shoulder.

"Sam?" Dean whispers, quietly, gently, as he would to a wounded animal, stepping carefully around pools and spatters of blood. "Sammy?" He squats beside his brother, forearms on knees, hands clasped in front of him.

Sam turns to him and blinks uncomprehendingly, without recognition. And Dean nearly wants to throw up at the raw pain that's there but he shoves down his feelings, stuffing them away into the locked box he won't ever touch, a skill honed by twenty-seven years of suck it up. He'll deal with himself later. He'll be okay. He always is. But, first, right now, he's got a broken little brother to look after.

"Sammy?" He keeps his voice low, soothing, but doesn't make an effort to move. He knows they've got to get out of there, run while they still can, but this isn't the time. "Sam?"

Sam blinks again. "She's gone."

Dean swallows hard. He wants so, so badly to tell Sammy that it's okay, that they've got nothing to worry about. That they've got all the time in the world and big brother's gonna fix it. But none of that is true and nothing he says will change that. He settles for an evasive "We gotta go."

"Why?" The word breaks down the middle in a sob.

He knows Sam's asking more than why they need to leave, but Dean opts for the obvious answer anyway because the jury's still out on the other question and it's not gonna come back for a long while. "The FBI's after our asses, remember? Someone's bound to have heard the gunshot. We gotta split."

"But you didn't kill her, Dean." Sam's eyes are huge and wounded. "I did. They can't convict you. I'm the one who pulled the trigger. She begged me to kill her… I couldn't say no." His voice splinters, soars all over the place on the last word.

"I know," Dean says. "I know. But that's not how the cops are gonna see it, man." His voice rises slightly in desperation, panic starting to set in. He clamps down on it, forcing himself to calm down, to be the steady one for Sam. _Suck it up. Freaking out isn't going to help anybody._ He picks up the gun and slips it into one of the inside pockets of his jacket, rising to his feet. "We gotta get outta here."

Sam nods slowly, letting the girl's head tilt back and he kisses her on the lips. With infinite care, Sam lays Madison on the ground and Dean can't help but notice the gaping wound in her chest. Silver bullet to the heart. He knows Sam shot to kill and it was quick, painless, merciful. The poor girl never knew what hit her.

When Sam straightens, he's starting to shake. "Dean..." he begins, but a shiver swallows up the rest of the word. Sam falls silent, hunching up on himself, somehow looking even huger despite his efforts to shrink.

"Hey." Dean steps closer until he's pressed up against Sam, grabbing his arm just above the elbow, offering physical contact. "I gotcha."

"You always do," Sam whispers, turning to him, tears streaming freely down his cheeks, over the scratches on his left cheekbone.

"Yeah, well..." Dean exhales, uncomfortable. _Somebody's gotta_ remains unsaid. They're going straight into chick-flick territory and they've lingered too long as it is. "We gotta go unless you want to be in a six-by-four cell for the next x-number of years."

Sam blinks, looks around the room, seeing it as though for the first time, and shudders.

"C'mon, dude." Dean tugs on Sam's jacket sleeve. To his relief, Sam responds and walks with him into the kitchen. "Sit," he orders, pulling out a kitchen chair with his foot. "Stay here and don't touch anything."

Sam sits dumbly.

"You with me?"

Sam nods.

"No touching. I'll be back in a couple of minutes." Dean leans forward, peering into Sam's face. Sighing, he slips into the bloody room. There's no hope of cleaning that mess up before they're discovered, but the least he can do is try to cover their tracks. Pulling out a bandana from one of his jacket pockets, he begins wiping down the crime scene, careful to step around the girl and to leave as much of the blood undisturbed as possible so it doesn't look like they tried to clean up.

He knows it's a crap, rushed job but Dean doesn't really care as he grabs Sam by his shirt on his way out and hauls Sam out of there, wiping prints from the doorknob, not letting Sam get bloody fingerprints on anything as they slip down the narrow emergency stairwell and out of the building. Somehow, they make it up the block to the Impala without anyone noticing or sounds of squealing sirens nearby, which is a feat in itself, considering the gun hadn't been silenced.

Making sure the coast is clear, Dean hustles Sam into the passenger seat and tears away from the curb before anyone can notice the gallon or so of fresh blood saturating his brother's front, wanting nothing more than to put miles and pavement between them and the dead were-girl.

Ten minutes later, Sam's still silent and unresponsive in the seat besides him, trembling slightly every now and then, his shirt darkening and Dean knows the blood must be cooling. After a particularly noticeable shiver, Dean reaches behind them, not taking his eyes off the road, hand coming into contact with his worn leather jacket. "Here, dude." He pushes it at Sam. "Put it on," he orders. "You're freezing, man."

Sam holds the jacket as though he's never seen it before in his life, then looks over, all confused and wounded-puppy. "Dean..." His voice is filled with tears. "I..."

"Just cover up with it, Sam," Dean repeats, cutting off his brother. "It's okay. Don't worry about it. I'll clean it later. 'S not the first time that thing's got a bit of blood on it."

Sam drags the jacket over himself like a blanket, looking lost and impossibly young. "Thanks," he croaks out, looking down at the expanse of scarred leather, shoulders slumping in relief at not having to stare at Madison's blood anymore.

"'S okay," Dean exhales. "Don't sweat it."

An hour and a half later, they're miles away, doubling back, skirting the edge of San Francisco, and Dean's looking for a motel. Sam's still too quiet, letting out the occasional snuffle and wiping his nose on the collar. Dean doesn't say anything,

He selects a motel on the far side of town. It's a cut above their usual lodgings, not so fancy that they'd feel stuffed up, but definitely more comfortable than their usual fare. Besides, it has the bonus of being far enough he's confident no one would trace Madison to them and yet close enough he can peruse the local news. Sam's still looking kind of dazed so Dean leaves him in the car. He checks them in under a credit card courtesy of Raymour Flanigan, rolling his eyes at Sam's choice of an alias, praying the girl with neon-pink dyed hair behind the counter has never heard of the furniture company, and drives around to the side of the motel. Then he shepherds his brother into room 146.

In the motel room, Dean herds Sam to the bathroom without stopping at _Go_ or collecting $200. And while Sam's trying to drown himself under the spray of hot water, he picks up his brother's bloody clothes from the cream colored tile floor and wads them up into a plastic _Thanks for Your Order_ takeout bag that still reeks of beef teriayki and fried rice, complete with the ugly-ass, yellow-green smiley-face. They're so saturated that it's not even worth trying to wash out the stains and, even if he did manage to get them clean, he doubts Sam would ever want to wear them again.

When Sam finally comes out of the bathroom, clad in sweatpants and a fresh t-shirt, Dean takes one look at his brother's swollen, red-rimmed eyes and sets down the _Weekly World News_. Sam doesn't make an effort to move. Patiently, Dean steps up to his little brother and steers him toward the nearest bed, the one farthest from the door, pushing him down on it. Picking up a water bottle from the bedside table and two white tablets, Dean extends them to Sam. "Take these and try to get some rest. You look like crap, man." He eyes the scratches on Sam's face and decides they don't need treatment.

Silently, automatically, Sam takes the pills, looking up at Dean, and for a moment Dean's convinced Sammy's nine years old and scared of monsters in the dark again.

"'S just aspirin," Dean fibs and Sam dutifully pops the sleeping pills into his mouth without a question or protest, chasing the bitterness down with water.

Sam blinks at the half-empty water bottle in his hand, clearly at a loss as to what he's supposed to do with it. "I killed her," he whispers. "I'm a murderer."

"Hey." Dean eases the bottle out of Sam's grip and places it back on the beside table. Turning to his gigantic brother, he manhandles Sam until he's lying down and covers him up with the blanket. _It's gonna be all right_ is on the tip of his tongue, but he knows it's a worse lie so he doesn't say it. "I gotcha, okay? Nothing's gonna happen to you. We can't save everyone. You did what you had to do, Sam. You didn't have a choice. D'you hear me? Jus'..." Dean releases a breath, seeing Sam's eyes grow heavy. "Jus' get some sleep and we'll deal with it in the morning, okay? I've got it."

Sam nods and rolls onto his side, facing the wall, back to Dean, tucking himself up like a kid.

Dean sits on the other double bed and waits until Sam's breathing grows slow and even, flipping through the week-and-a-half-old tabloid. It doesn't take long for the pills to kick in; Sam's eaten next to nothing all day. When he's sure that Sam won't awaken for at least three hours, he crosses the room, picking up the bag of ruined clothes and slips outside, locking the door behind him.

He finds the dumpster behind the motel and watches the smiley-face sail overhead into the blue metal bin. Whirling, he smashes his fist into the receptacle.

 _Why can't we ever catch a friggin' break?_ he wonders, slumping up against the uncomfortably-warm metal side of the dumpster, fingers squeezing the bridge of his nose. _Just when things finally fall into place and we hit any kind of damn groove and it's smooth sailing, shit always happens._ He throws a side kick at the dumpster. The give of the thin sheet metal under his boot and the resulting clang, instead of satisfying him, only serves to fuel his anger.

He throws another kick, and another, and another, his body falling into the memorized rhythm of hand-to-hand practices Dad encoded into his psyche from the time he was five or six. He punches at an imaginary assailant, metal banging under his blow. He pummels the dumpster, fury still strumming on strung-out nerves. He kicks again and again, seeking release. It's not as easy sparring without a partner, but he's done it for four years and doesn't care, losing even more of himself in the blind combat.

After a while, he's breathing hard with exertion, his shirt clinging sweatily to his back and there are a heck of a lot more dents in the side of the dumpster than when he threw out Sam's clothes. Doubling over, scraped hands on throbbing knees, he takes long gasps of air, replenishing his oxygen-starved body. It's been a while since he's pushed himself this hard, but he feels better than he's felt all afternoon. He has no idea how long he's been outside; it could be ten minutes or it could be an hour. A glance at his watch isn't much use either because he hadn't bothered to check the time when he left the motel room. He picks up his jacket and button-down shirt from the dust, discarded at some point, and heads back to Sam. He's as ready as he'll ever be.

When Dean enters their room, the first thing he sees is Sam mumbling and squirming on the bed, obviously in the throes of a nightmare.

"Hey." Dean shuts the door behind him, tossing the jacket and shirt onto a chair as he crosses the room in a few short strides to Sam's side. "Wake up, dude. You're dreaming."

The moment Dean's hand makes contact with his shoulder, Sam jerks awake, sitting upright with a gasp, swinging. Fortunately, Sam's arm goes wide and Dean sidesteps it easily.

"Easy." Dean keeps his voice light, even. "'S okay."

Sam's still gasping, sweating. "God..." He raises his hands to his face and smears off the wetness with his palms. He reaches out a hand and Dean sees it trembling a moment before it makes contact with his t-shirt.

"Dean..." Sam's voice is thick and teary as he fists his fingers in the soft fabric at Dean's hip, tugging, burying his face in the worn, sour-smelling cotton.

"Dude?"

Sam doesn't answer and grabs Dean's belt loops with his other hand, jerking Dean closer. Dean can feel Sam's tears soaking into his shirt, the sweaty fabric absorbing even more liquid.

"Don't go," Sam half-whimpers.

"Hey." Dean tries to move, to sit on the bed or at least crouch, but Sam's got an iron grip on him and he's pinned in place, almost being choked by the amount of weight Sam's putting on his shirt. He injects a thread of command into his voice. "Shut up. I'm not going anywhere. But you gotta let up."

Sam eases his grip slightly, giving Dean enough slack to crouch so they're eye to eye. Sam's all puppy-eyed in his desperation and pain, tears running messily down his face, begging big brother to fix it all, to make the agony to go away as one hand releases the belt loops in favor of reaching out to touch the worn amulet then dropping to the mattress, other hand not loosening its hold on the damp cotton t-shirt.

 _Fuck. This is Jess all over again._ Sam's still latched on him, still crying those big, silent tears. "Look at me, Sam." Dean searches his brother's eyes, sees Sam's hanging on every word. "I promise. You don't have to worry about anything. Not while I'm around." He has no idea what to do with his hands so he settles for clapping one of them on Sam's shoulder. "It's gonna be okay. I gotcha. I'm not gonna go anywhere."

"Everybody dies on me," Sam whispers, fingers twisting the sheet by his thigh. "I'm cursed."

 _Crap._ Dean half wants to strangle his brother. "Hey, hey, hey. You're not damned, okay? You're not evil. And I'm not dead. I've been with you just about every day for the past year and I'm still kicking." He releases Sam's shoulder and grabs his brother's wrist, stopping Sam from choking him. "Look." Sam's eyes shoot from Dean's hand to his face. "I gotcha. Nothing's gonna happen to you as long as I'm here."

He's not sure if it's his touch or his voice that reassures his brother. Either way, Sam slumps up against him, releasing his grip on the t-shirt. It takes almost a full minute for Dean to realize that the drugs've kicked back in and his brother's fallen asleep on him. "I'm getting too old for this," he mutters without heat, easing Sam back onto the bed and straightening out the bedcovers.

Dean stands slowly, knees creaking slightly. He can feel the dull ache of his ruined left shoulder sharpen, making itself known. The joint is already a mess from all the times it's been jammed or sprained or stabbed or shot or God-knows-what more than he'd care to remember, and the repetitive motion of whaling on the dumpster without stretching first was not the best idea he's ever had. He unzips his duffel bag and pulls out a semi-clean pair of jeans and a fresh t-shirt and checks his wallet for cash, stealing another glance at Sam as he passes Sam's bed on his way to the bathroom. Even asleep, the kid looks miserable. He knows that if this is anything like the days and weeks after Jess died, Sam's going to want a hunt and he'll find one. But, right now at least, he doesn't have the energy to deal with it. He twists on the hot water to the shower, jacking it as high as it can go. Tonight, they'll lie low, probably get smashed, and then tomorrow they'll deal with the fallout as they always have.


End file.
